


Whispers

by Rennie1265



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Fog, Gen, Samhain, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rennie1265/pseuds/Rennie1265
Summary: Merely a pirate ship in the swirling fog as the light fades on Samhain night. In honour of the approaching time.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> A short piece done originally for a Ghosts challenge on the Yahoo group The Black Pearl Sails way back in 2004. As it is the season, I am posting this lightly revised version here. Not beta’d, all mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: recognizable characters belong to the Kingdom of the Mouse and are used here fondly for personal pleasure and not for profit.

_**Whispers** _

Jack’s belly roiled queasily with trepidation. He leaned heavily on the railing of the quarterdeck, alone, staring blankly where the horizon should have been but for the fog. It was the last day of October, nothing remarkable really, but it was Samhain and nightfall was approaching rapidly, as it did in these latitudes.

The part of Jack that had its deepest roots in the ancient Celtic lands of Britain and Hibernia whispered things to him to which his rational mind did not give credence willingly. This was, however, the night when the walls between the worlds grew thin and one could face anything or anyone, real or imagined.

The deepening fog did not help matters. It played upon his fears and insecurities, spurring his imagination to people the mists with enemies and loved ones alike. Dead, living, or fates unknown, they would all appear out of the swirling vapours without rhyme or reason, calling his name on the light, damp wisps of air.

The crew was uncommon quiet as the light failed, gathered together in uneasy groups. Even the lanterns did little to ease the dreariness, their yellow light dimmed and absorbed by the fog. Jack heard Gibbs and Marty muttering on the deck below, to themselves or each other he did not know or care. A dull thud echoed when Gibbs dropped his beloved flask onto the planks, his distinct “It’s bad luck, mark my words,” swallowed quickly by the gloom.

Jack shivered abruptly, so violently his beaded braids clattered, upon hearing a raspy voice singing an old melody in a familiar off-key baritone. The singing was unremarkable, other than it seemed to originate somewhere off the port quarter, an impossibility with the nearest landfall leagues distant. His eyes stretched wide, the whites showing like those of a spooked horse as he attempted vainly to peer through the murk, the hairs in his arms and neck rising involuntarily.

“Well, Jack, it’s been a long time.” The voice murmured close by his ear as the scent of a well-known pipe tobacco eddied around his head, accompanied by the brush of a long-tailed coat along his legs.

Jack closed his eyes and gripped the blackened oak railing so fiercely he half expected to hear his bones cracking, both desperate to believe and fearful at the same time.

“Hello, William.”


End file.
